Worry & Care
by Halcyon Impulsion
Summary: Hunting takes its toll, and Sam and Dean each have their own way of working out the pain. They're sure they've got each other all figured out, but neither has figured out how to stop the past from shaping the present. New summary, same story.
1. Chapter 1

Summary: Dean and Sam are sure they've got each other all figured out, but neither understands how to stop the past from shaping the present. Will they take the strength they use to fight demons and use it to heal themselves and each other?

Characters: Dean and Sam and lot of extras, point of view switches.

Author's Notes: This is my first Supernatural fanfic... and I promise it's going somewhere! This is set at an undetermined point in the canon timeline, and the hunt is fictional - I might get around to writing it out though when I'm done with this.

Disclaimer: I own no characters or bits and pieces of Supernatural, except in my head.**

* * *

****Worry & Care**

_Faith is not without worry or care - faith is fear that has said a prayer. - Author Unknown_

**_Chapter One_**

"Oh, to be Dean the Magnificent." thought Sam.

He was sitting in a grungy, dim diner on the side of a little state highway in the middle of nearly nowhere. Sam and Dean were in between jobs. Driving just to drive, on the way to someplace, sooner or later. Sam leaned back in his chair and watched his older brother flirt with the waitress as she stood blushing behind the counter. It seemed to Sam that Dean had always been confident, and that confidence never wavered - whether he was fighting ghosts or fishing for a little female companionship.

The waitress laughed, and Dean leaned on the counter and reached out, casually putting his hand over hers. Sam rolled his eyes as he watched Dean use the Bashful Sensitive Smile and pull his hand back. Dean stood up straight and crossed his arms over his chest, and Sam saw the waitress walk right into Dean's trap. She moved around the counter in an instant to stand inches from Dean, her hand on his arm. Dean smiled the Magnificent Smile and the waitress took her order pad and pen from her pocket. Sam shook his head as Dean sauntered back to the booth, biting the folded slip of paper with the waitress' phone number in his grin.

"You don't mind if I go out for awhile tonight, do you Sammy?"

"Of course not," said Sam "I'd hate to keep you from earning your babysitting money."

"Hey - I asked, she's legal." Dean shot back.

"Sure." said Sam shortly, deciding he didn't really wasn't up to having this conversation with his brother tonight.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, Dean, nothing."

"You have something to say about my entertainment choices, Sammy-boy?" pushed Dean, the edge of challenge soft and sharp in his voice. Sam could tell Dean was ready for a fight, and it wasn't like there was really anyone else for him to fight with (that wouldn't lead to an arrest anyway).

* * *

They'd left Indiana and the strange disappearances (also known as supernatural spelunker-nappings) at the Wyandotte Caves in Harrison-Crawford State Forest behind, about forty-eight hours earlier. They'd been sore and weary and had ordered in pizza as soon as they reached the StarNight Motel. They each finished a large pepperoni (Dean's with pineapple, Sam's with mushrooms) and slept until dawn. 

This was what they always did. Leave the hunt site, drive until the adrenaline finally began to wind down and Dean started to swerve and Sam hollered that it wasn't demons that were gonna do them in. They ate in their room, even if that meant whatever was left in the backseat of the Impala. They slept, often in whatever they were wearing, bloody or not.

Morning was quiet between them, and the post-hunt pattern continued. Showers, fuel and breakfast from the gas station nearest the on-ramp. Still no real conversation, and no discussion of destination. Just running, decompressing, re-stabilizing.

They drove until it got dark (so longer in the Summer than in Winter), Sam driving briefly after lunch (Dean was a sucker for good digestive nap), and when they stopped for the night, they ate out. Then they parted ways until morning. Each had a cleansing ritual of his own.

After months of traveling with his brother again, fighting the good fight, killing nasty things, Sam's understanding of what went on in Dean's brain hadn't been significantly expanded. He had grown up enough to realize that in those last few years before he had. left "home", he had been supremely sorry for himself and exceedingly focused on his own misery. Yet he struggled even now to push back the waves of terror and frustration, to live what was and not let what he longed for kill him - one way or another.

He knew himself better now than he had five years ago, but truthfully that wasn't saying much. John Winchester had never given his sons permission to feel or to understand why they had to do what they did. Neither Sam nor Dean had ever had the luxury of putting the two together - feelings and reasons - to create an emotional life that made much sense. They worked, they ran, they did it again. Their father had been clear for as long as Sam could remember that hunters of evil didn't get paid leave - not to think, not to feel, not for a funeral. You were in, or you were out. Dean stayed because he couldn't bear to think about the alternative. Sam had left them because he couldn't _stop_ thinking about it.

Sam had taken two psychology courses in college but they weren't near enough training to unravel someone whose guts were as tightly wound as his brother's. Sometimes, Sam thought Dean's relationships with women (if you could call them that), were simply about frustration being released - the work they did was hard and stressful, and Sam's own outlet (he had a library card from nearly every town they'd stopped in) clearly didn't work for Dean.

Sometimes Sam wondered if Dean's shortened time with their mother had given him a weird hang-up that kept him from really getting close to a woman. And sometimes he wondered if his brother was just a jerk. An arrogant (yes), insensitive (often), chauvinistic jerk, who really did subscribe to "use 'em and lose 'em". That last one didn't ring completely true for a reason the younger brother couldn't put his finger on. Sam was sure there were other possible explanations, but he usually fell asleep before he could hash out more than his first three theories.

* * *

Sam sighed as Dean started in again. 

"You know it's not like you couldn't find somebody to hook up with if you wanted to - and if not, I might be willing to share." Dean smirked nastily.

"Thanks but no thanks - I think I'll turn in early tonight." Sam replied, trying to keep his tone even. "It's actually easier to fall asleep when you're not snoring in the next bed."

"I don't snore." muttered Dean darkly as he took out his wallet and added a bigger tip to the money Sam had already put on the table. A little more butter for the waitress.

They stood and Dean motioned Sam toward the door, indicating with a nod of his head that he'd follow after he… said his goodbyes.

Sam waited in the Impala for seventeen minutes, watching Dean flirt and fondle the waitress. He sighed again, and leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He opened them as he heard the bell on the diner door jingle, just in time to see Dean flash his prey the You Just Wait - I Am So Worth It Smile and head for the car.

"So, I'll drop you off and see you much, much, later, Dude." Dean's self-satisfied tone matched his expression. "You don't need to wait up this time Sammy. Really."

"I wasn't waiting up for you, you idiot!" Sam snapped. "It was a good book. Not everything in the universe is about you, Dean."

"Well, you could've fooled me." Said Dean with a laugh that wasn't meant to be funny. "I get tired of your attitude, Sam" he went on tightly, "I don't need your permission to have a good time - hey, I don't need your permission for _anything_ baby brother."

"I never said you did!" shrieked Sam, his blood pressure and his voice rising. How did Dean manage to make him feel ten years old in ten seconds flat! He heard himself continue the argument with his brother, Sam trying to explain, Dean trying to maim, and suddenly Sam felt completely deflated. He shut his mouth and turned to the window.

"You have your hobbies, I have mine." Dean said, knowing he was getting the last word in. "Now get out." He pulled to a stop in front of their motel room, refusing to look at his brother. "I told you to get out of my car, Sam. We're done."

Sam's rage was ready to spill and he was afraid if he moved a muscle he wouldn't be able to keep himself from slugging Dean, hard.

"Sam." The only thing that scared the younger Winchester more than his own rage was that of his brother and what he heard in Dean's voice pulled him into action. He was out of the car in a second but not fast enough to escape Dean's final dig - "Go read yourself a bedtime story like a good little Sammy-boy."


	2. Chapter 2

Author's note: The T rating is (according to the rating people) for "minor suggestive adult themes". Which aren't really present in this chapter, but will be in the next and were in the last. In case you were worried, Dean's dirt will be delved into, deeply, in the next chapter – yippee! I'm really sorry this chapter ends in an awkward place – I desperately tried to avoid it… the muse comes, the muse goes, what can we do? I'll try to update in the next day or so. Thank you so much to everyone who commented and put me on their alert list! Please do continue to read and review - after only 24 hours as an author on this website, I am already a feedback junkie. I keep hitting that Stats button like I'm down to 22 seconds on an eBay auction!

Disclaimer: I don't own Sam and Dean. Sad, but true.

**_Chapter Two_**

_The marksman hitteth the mark partly by pulling, partly by letting go. –Egyptian Proverb _

Sam slammed the door, and threw himself on the bed. He got up and paced. He brushed his teeth. He opened his suitcase and pulled out a stack of books. He picked up a chair and threw it at the wall (Dean wasn't the only one who knew how to trash a motel room).

Why does living with Dean have to be so hard? Why does he make me so crazy? How is it possible that living without Dean worse than living with him? Sam needed air and opening the door, leaned on the jamb, his eyes closed and his hands clasped behind is head. He breathed deeply and listened to the night sounds.

There was a warm breeze and as it touched his face, he thought of Jess and his eyes began to burn. He swallowed hard and tried to close the door on those feelings… loss was like Pandora's Box. There had been so many losses in the barely two decades of Sam Winchester's life that he couldn't just grieve for one. Mom. Dad. Dean. Jess. And those were just the big ones. Some losses permanent, some losses… pending. A million little things had been sacrificed and some days Sam knew why, but that lucidity was fleeting and the pain grated his soul fresh at moments like this.

He felt a sob tearing at the pit of his stomach and he turned toward the room, shutting the door behind him and sliding to the floor. He leaned his head back against the door and brought his knees tight to his chest. He didn't want the tears to come, but he couldn't stop them – he could never stop them, and he hated that – he was a baby. _The _baby. Why couldn't he stop this feeling, this fear, this pain? He was an adult now, (technically). Why did it have to be him that broke? Dean didn't break. Even nearly dead, Dean didn't break… and here was baby Sammy, falling apart 'cause his big brother didn't want to sit home with him all night. Of course that wasn't truly the problem – a trigger, but not the problem.

The voice mostly taunted and yet still, with that mocking, Dean's voice always made him feel safer. Even if the voice and the safety were only in his head. Sam leaned forward and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Stop it Sam," he whispered raggedly, and then a little louder; "Stop it." He felt his heartbeat slowing as he lost himself in a memory – a collection of memories.

_It's okay Sammy, it's okay… don't cry anymore… _

_Breathe baby brother, we're gonna be alright…_

_I'm here Sammy, we'll get through this, I promise…_

_Hang in there buddy… we're a team, remember... _

_I've got you boy… you're safe little Sam, you're safe…_

_Don't be scared, Sammy… brother's got you…_

_I'll never leave you Sammy boy, never never never …_

"Oh, Dean…" Sam whispered "I'm sorry it's like this, I'm sorry you have to take care of me and I can't seem to take care of you. I'm sorry we don't know each other anymore." He was empty now, the rage was gone and Sam was too numb to feel anything except a wisp of sorrow. His heart was too tired for more. Funny how heads don't always listen to hearts. He dried his damp cheeks and leaned his head against the door again, breathing slow. The wheels in his head kept grinding, cranking out the analysis which had long been his most successful coping mechanism.

After joining Dean again in the hunt it hadn't taken Sam long to realize how much he needed his big brother – how much safer he felt knowing Dean had his back, Dean was in the next room, Dean was driving while he slept. "Well, maybe not so much the last one." He muttered to himself wryly. In Sam's mind, Dean was oblivious to his brother's need for family & stability, and clueless that it was Dean himself who had provided those things for as long as Sam could remember – for his entire, remembered existence. Until Jess, Sam had believed that Dean would be all he ever had and now… well, Sam was back to square one in that regard. Sam had realized in that first week together again what his greatest fear in life was – his _two_ greatest fears. First, that Dean didn't know how much Sam needed him. Last, was that Dean didn't need his baby brother at all.

Every expedition brought those questions to the surface for Sam. The consuming physical and psychological task of not just enduring, but conquering, turned his insides out. He had never had the emotional defenses Dean was capable of – probably because he'd always had a big brother to turn to. Dean had needed the walls to hold back the pain and keep himself alive… a safe haven for _his_ soul hadn't been available. The first Winchester son had been sucking it up and moving on since he was in kindergarten – with a father and a baby brother to take care of, he didn't know there was a choice except to just… be okay. Sam couldn't comprehend it very well. He understood it logically, but he couldn't put himself in Dean's shoes. He wouldn't have survived Dean's childhood. He'd barely survived his own, and there was not a question but that he owed said survival to his brother.

Sam had considered recently, that while on the surface Dean appeared to be much more like their father then Sam himself was (rough and tumble and terrifying)… maybe it wasn't all that true. Hunting haunted John Winchester and drove him to serious drink and despair. His life consisted of two things; he hunted and then he drowned the whys and wherefores out using whatever creative substance was closest at hand (sometimes _very_ creative Sam could attest to). He loved his sons desperately, but that love couldn't redeem him from the darkness that enveloped his existence when Mary died. And while he knew it was an awful thing for a child to know, John had not been able to hide it from the boys for long.

Sam knew, in that part of him which saw the reality of his own weaknesses (the part most can't bear to look at), that without Dean to steady his nerves, Sam would _be_ his father. Without Dean, Sam would have needed to find something else to steady his nerves – and the similarities between father and youngest son would then be brilliantly clear.

Sam got ready for bed, leaving only the lamp on the nightstand lit and picked a novel from the stack on the pillow beside him. He glanced at the clock radio across the room, out of habit, and then at the door. The heat was there again, behind his eyes for just a second and then he smiled to himself. "Time to grow up Sammy boy – you should be grateful Dean's not back to see your puffy eyes and your red nose. You need to jusr sleep it off as usual." And then, out loud to scare the lingering spirits away, sarcastic like Dean, "You've got your hobbies, and I've got mine." Sam didn't intend for his big brother to ever find out that winding down from hunt meant a near emotional break down for little Sammy – every single time.

Dean wasn't afraid of anything and to be with him, to destroy what killed Mom and Jess… well; Sam would get himself a good shrink when this was all over. Until then, he'd save the fallout from his childhood traumas for these special occasions. If Dean could get through this without a split-second of terror, Sam would at least try and pretend he felt the same way. He was in this 'til it was done, and that meant… that meant no paid leave.

Dean sat in the 7-11 parking lot around the corner from the StarNight Motel. The Impala was running, but the music was off, and Dean closed his eyes and listened to the baby purr. It was another ongoing point of ribbing – Sam called it obnoxious thunder, but Dean insisted she was all purr.

"What do you know about cats?" scowled Sam.

"What do you know about thunder, stupid?" replied Dean, fingers drumming on the steering wheel.

"More than you know about cats, jerk – we never had a pet, and we never went to the zoo." Sam said wth scorn. "Thunder, I've heard and this beast makes enough noise to permanently damage the ability to speak in a normal tone."

"Watch the language dude –" warned Dean "don't badmouth my baby unless you feel like walking the next hundred miles." He smirked. "You're just jealous."

"Jealous? Sure Dean, whatever. It's a sweet car if your point is to show off, but it's mighty uncomfortable for those of us that have to sleep in it on a regular basis."

"What do you mean 'those of us'? I've slept in this car as much as you have."

"Hardly." Said Sam, glaring out the window.

"Hardly? You sound like a butler, Sammy." said Dean with a laugh.

"You drive, I sleep – like nine-hundred percent of the time, Dean, and I'm ready for a CD player and adjustable seats." Sam's frustration manifested itself in a sulk (as it usually did).

Dean was quiet for a minute and then spoke with solemn mock incredulity, "You'd give up this classic purring princess for a couple more inches of leg room and some new-fangled music machine?"

"It doesn't purr!" exploded Sam, and there was dead silence for nearly sixty seconds.

"How do you know –" replied Dean carefully "we never had a cat and we never went to the zoo Sammy."

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. Dean smiled. Sam laughed. Sometimes they knew how to let it go, sometimes they could.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's note: This flashback of Dean as a nine-year-old happens sometime before the canon flashback we see in "Something Wicked". What you see here could bethe first step which eventually leads to Deanmaking that choice. My hope is that this chapter gives some insight and helps the _next _chapter make sense. It didn't come easily and wasn't the direction I intended to take... but for some reason, it seemed this part needed to be told. Thanks to my fanfictionmentorH.T. Marie, for kindness, support and the answering of complicated questions. Thanks also to my patient husband, my friend Allie (who always gets to read it first), and those fabulous people who reviewed helpfully and generously - you are greatly appreciated!

Disclaimer: Thanks for letting me borrow the Winchesters, and rest assured that's all it is.

_**Chapter Three**_

_The world is not respectable; it is mortal, tormented, confused, deluded forever; but it is shot through with beauty, with love, with glints of courage and laughter; and in these, the spirit blooms timidly, and struggles to the light amid the thorns. - George Santayana_

When Dean was nine, they'd stayed in upstate New York for almost six weeks. Same digs, same story – dumb little motel, Dad gone days at a time. Dean and Sammy alone while John hunted his demons. At five, Sammy still took a nap. Like a tired mother, Dean encouraged (demanded) this – his little brother's nap time was Dean's respite from adult-hood, even if it was only an hour or two.

* * *

Dean wanted some air. Sammy had been a pain in the neck all morning, and Dad had been gone for five days. It was late spring, muggy nd warm, and keeping his little brother indoors was torture (as Dean understood it at the time). He glanced longingly at the closed curtains, and then back at Sam, lying on the bed, drowsy. He heard his father's voice in his head – _"Never leave your brother alone. Don't leave the room during school hours. Don't go out after dark. Make sure the Do Not Disturb sign is on the door. Don't answer if someone knocks. When you go out and come in, double check the lock. If people talk to you, be relaxed. Don't act afraid, don't act lost, and don't ever – ever – tell anyone I'm gone."_

Two more minutes glowed red on the clock radio and Dean's looked up from the newspaper he was reading and stole another look at Sammy, whose eyes were now closed. He'd timed it for the last couple of months and knew nearly to the millisecond how long it took for his baby brother to be sound asleep. If he stood up thirty-eight seconds too soon, Sammy sat bolt upright or started to cry or both and then they had to start all over again. Sometimes it felt fast, but today it was too long for Dean, and he had to will himself still. "Four more minutes, then I'm done." he thought. "Almost there."

Dad never cared if they slept or not, as long as they were quiet when he wanted them to be quiet. This napping pattern had first evolved because Dean observed that Sam was easier to control and less likely to make Dad blow up, if he wasn't tired. Dean's intention at this point in his life was to keep Sam happy and keep his father from being angry. The two were often the same thing. It was just the cherry on top that Dean got some time to himself.

Dean stood with stealth and walked to the bed, looking down at Sam. He carefully pushed his brother closer to the middle of the bed (why did the kid always fall asleep right on the edge?) and tucked the blanket around him. Sam stirred soundlessly, but didn't open his eyes. Now for the final test of Sammy Slumber. Dean leaned in close and whispered in his brother's ear. "I love you little Sam." No movement, no sound. Done.

Walking to the window, Dean moved the ugly curtain aside and looked out. They'd gotten a room this time that particularly pleased his father… back of the building, room facing nothing but a parking lot with an empty field beyond it. Corner at the dead end of a block of rooms. Dean would have preferred to be on the second floor – upstairs dead end rooms meant they could leave curtains or even the window itself open if there was one on the non-door side of the room. First floor meant they were stuck in a cave; another one of his Dad's rules was about open curtains and people walking by. The parking lot was empty, but beyond it the light wind rippling through the tall green grass mesmerized Dean – it seemed he could hear the rustle and swish.

Not for the first time, Dean Winchester wished for something he didn't dare put a finger on. In the twilight between dreaming and wakefulness what he still wanted was his mother… but that anguished yearning stayed behind when it was time to get up in the morning.

Sometimes he told himself that what he wanted was a friend. Or a school to go to, or a closet instead of a suitcase, or a pet turtle, or a baseball team to play on, or a day without fear… but he dreamed of the same thing every night. He spent a lot of energy forgetting about that dream while he was awake. He let the longing steam and ache inside but he couldn't face it whole – only in bits and pieces. One word wants – friend, Mom, school, peace – all slivers of the real wish, which encompassed them all. Dean Winchester wished for home.

Dean heard the truck before he saw it and ducked back so the curtain was open only an inch or so. A grey-haired man, skinny and mean-looking, grabbed a brown paper bag out of the car and watched it sail into the grass. Then the truck was gone… and Dean's eyes were glued to a dent in the sea of green.

Looking at his sleeping baby brother, Dean hesitated for what felt like an hour. Then he was outside the door, double-checking the lock, his father bellowing in his ear. _Don't leave the room during school hours. _Dean kept his eyes focused on the number 19, faded against the dirty grey of the door, and walked backwards. _Never leave your brother alone._ He felt his heart beating miserably in chest, thumping all the way to his stomach. "I'm not." he whispered, "I'm not leaving him. I can see the door, I can see Sammy's safe." Dean felt the grass tickle his legs, and he stopped. "I'm not leaving you Sammy – I'm still here."

In his mind's eye he saw himself at the window; saw the truck and the man and the bag. Dean's memory had always been good – something that served him when Dad remembered to enroll him in school and Dean hadn't been in math class for 2 ½ months. The bag would be about a yard behind him, an arm's length to his left.

Taking another step back – carefully – the smell of the crushed grass surrounded him and he was still for an instant.

"_Oh, my Dean…" Mary sighed "I love the smell of warm grass."_

"_Me too Mama." _

"_And I love to watch the stars with my baby..." _

"_I'm not a baby" he protested._

"_Not for long, my Dean, not for long."_

_In the darkness, Dean could hear the smile in his mother's voice and he smiled too. The grass tickled his neck as they lay on the lawn behind their house. He gazed at the moon – so bright, and took a deep breath of grassy green breeze._

He blinked as a noise registered, and it took all his willpower not to turn around and look. Two more steps and the bag was there, in front of him now, on the ground. It moved almost imperceptibly and Dean heard the noise again – "Something's alive in there!" he thought. One eye was still on the number 19, which he could see through the path he'd created, and he lowered himself to a crouch. Whatever was inside couldn't be anything that big, judging from the size of the bag, but his hands were hot and a little unsteady as he reached towards it. Taking the edge of the bag with both hands, he silently counted to three and then in a breath ripped it open. He fell backwards with a thud, his gaze jumping to the door and then back to the small bit of fur at his feet. It was a kitten.

John didn't come back for another week – the longest stretch he'd left the boys alone. When he came back he'd been badly beaten and it took him several days to realize they had a guest and then in a moment of softness that Dean hadn't seen from his father in a long, long time John said it could stay until they moved on. He had questioned Dean about the kitten, and Dean had been eager to share his excitement. Chances to share anything with his dad were few. John Winchester was a driven man whose attention to his sons was constantly overshadowed by his fear for them – so much fear that he pushed them away so he wouldn't be distracted by needs that seemed less than life or death.

The kitten (Chester) had arrived on a Friday and the next day Dean had taken Sammy to the library and smuggled home three books on feline care. He read carefully into the night and the next day they'd taken a trip to the store. Dean used his meager savings (change from the grocery money John gave him), to buy a few necessary supplies. Further study taught Dean how to tell the difference between boy cats and girl cats and Chester became Windy.

Dean slept with Windy on his chest for almost three weeks total and the day they left town he thought he would die from the loss. Dad didn't say much except that the road was no place for a cat and had given Dean a quiet, rare apology. As Sam slept in the back seat, Dean took the kitten into the animal shelter alone, feeling his father's eyes steady at his back. When Dean walked out of the pound leaving Windy behind, John was standing next to the car waiting for him. He opened his arms and held Dean tightly until the boy's sobs became dry shudders. As they hit the highway, Dean closed his eyes and felt the rumble of the road beneath him – he hadn't known before – the car sounded just like a cat, right up close to your ear. In a few more miles he drifted off, lulled by the substitute purr of the black Impala.


	4. Chapter 4

Author's Note: Thanks HT for asking where this was! Flashing-back is just for you. Special thanks to Allie for helping me feel it and letting me write your words. Thanks to Steven for telling me what he doesn't like and still loving me when I keep it because **I** like it. Cynthia, my greedy-reader, thanks for reminding me that my public awaits. Much MUCH love to those who review! Okay, done accepting award now. Read, review, call me to repentance.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. Tell me where to send my scripts and maybe I won't have to steal Sam and Dean quite so often.

_**Chapter Four**_

_The master in the art of living makes little distinction between his work and his play, his labor and his leisure, his mind and his body, his education and his recreation, his love and his religion; he hardly knows which is which. He simply pursues his vision of excellence in whatever he does, leaving others to decide whether he is working or playing. To him he is always doing both. – Zen Buddhist text_

_Whoever can see through all fear will always be safe. –Tao Te Ching_

Dusk moved into night and Dean was brought back from memory lane as a car filled with teenage girls slowed alongside him, whistling and wiggling for his attention. He smiled – enough to tease appreciatively, not enough to invite conversation, and they pulled past, blowing kisses and waving. The smile stayed on his face for a few moments and then he shook his head soundly, as if trying to shake it clear of recollection. "That's enough." He said to himself, taking a deep breath. "More than enough." He set his jaw tightly and his eyes skimmed the parking lot, not looking for anything in particular. "Let's get this party started" he muttered, "while we're still among the living." He circled the building and headed away from the StarNight Motel – away from the blood and the hunt and even… away from Sam.

When they checked into a motel, Dean always asked for an extra phone book. He told Sam it was so they had one in the car for research and since Dean seemed to forget to throw them out or leave them behind, Sam enjoyed griping about having to dump Dean's "collection" every few hundred miles. They'd come in handy more than once, but Sam had no clue that Dean had other reasons for the directories. "It's nice to have him so self-absorbed," thought Dean with a little sarcasm, "keeps him from getting nosy."

The streets were nearly empty as he drove, aimlessly at first. Then, seeing the map of the city that he had found in the front of the phone book clearly in his head, he made a left, then a right and pulled over under a sycamore older than he was. He turned off the car and found what he needed in the backpack he always kept in the trunk – Sam thought it was for a different kind of emergency – and slid into the front seat again. The shadow of the tree blocked the glow of the streetlights, and with the ease of hustle that comes from practice, he was changed and ready to run.

Dean stood for a time, stretching the stiffness in his knees, the knots in his shoulders. "Twenty-six and I feel like I'm sixty these days." He thought, his joints creaking as he leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the ground in front of him and pushing into them. He stood and started slow, feeling the oxygen moving through his lungs, feeling his muscles stretch with familiarity yet grumble from inattention.

It had been a couple of weeks since he'd had a run – or at least one that didn't involve hauling his busted-up self through cracks and crevices trying to outdistance howling spectral cave spooks. He grinned to himself and thought out loud, enjoying the snap of satisfaction that his habitual sarcasm brought. "Ah, the life of a professional monster-whacker. Superman ain't got nothin' on my constitution and even postal workers ain't got my stress."

It was full dark now, and the small town lights were not enough to drown out the shining cosmos. Dean was glad for both the company and the added light – tripping wasn't his idea of a good time and the last time he'd tried to run in the pitch black of some Ohio Podunk it had been a headache trying to explain away the massive damage Sam had seen on the flats of Dean's hands.

Warmth spread through him as he moved more quickly. He concentrated on the sound for a few blocks, his breathing even … the intake and exhalation bathing the weary wounds he carried, settling him into the run. His left shoe felt a little tight and for a half-dozen steps he leaned heavily on it as it hit the concrete, shaking his foot as it came of the ground, unwilling to stop and deal with it.

There was a time that this – running at night – would have frightened him, a dozen years ago maybe. He knew what was out there, he knew what could befall even the most innocent – which he wasn't – and he didn't know for absolute certain he could beat the evil that lurked in the shadows beyond dusk… beyond fairytales. By sixteen he was confident. Dad let him lead sometimes and as he became physically stronger he was able to withstand the terror better. Sixteen-year-old boldness might get you into fights at school, but it was actually a virtue for the serious slayer. He'd kept that boldness and used it as a vaccination against the freezing, dragging, horror that hunting held – the combination of killing's reality and evil's actuality.

Now, running at night, there was no fear. At least not enough fear to stop him, or close enough to the surface to make him stumble. Running at night is a sort of test for that, he's decided… a way to make sure he can still leave his dread and choose his destiny. Maybe there is something out there now, maybe there isn't – he was still going to run. And if he had to fight, he would. Being in the dark is intoxicating when you don't fear whatever fright appears in your path – when you no longer fear your own fear.

* * *

_He'd never been allowed to walk in front of his father before, though he'd coaxed and stormed about it for the last three or four years. He'd learned to handle his first bowie knife at seven, a handgun at eight and shotgun at ten. At first it was only about protection. _

_While John hunted, Dean stayed with his little brother at a motel or the rare friend's house; waiting, pretending strength, telling Sammy it was all going to be okay. Always fearful that his dad wouldn't come home and then, like the tale of the squashed spider's family who comes for revenge, the thing Dad tried to kill would come for him and his brother. He didn't sleep of his own will while Dad was gone – at night he lay in bed, hand on his knife, holding his breath until exhaustion finally forced him unconscious without his consent._

_At twelve, he started hunting. If you could call it that. Sammy came too and stayed in the car. It was a point of contention between father and eldest son – John wanted to leave him as usual, but Dean wouldn't budge. Dean was armed and allowed out, but his job was to keep the car in sight, protect his brother, and back his Dad up if the monster came into range because it wasn't going well and John was running. As John was good at what he did, Dean's first year of hunting consisted of …not much_

_Two things snarled ferociously at Dean during the months following his twelfth birthday – first, absolutely stunning panic that he wouldn't be able to protect his father and his brother. Second, that John could see how frightened he really was and wouldn't trust him or respect him. These gut-wrenching fears made him restless and impatient, which pushed him toward a choice._

_Finally, Dean couldn't deal with mindless drills anymore. With battle fueled by the rage he could see inside his father, but not touch within himself. His anger was still the incomplete mourning of a lost, lashing, child and not that of a broken man. And while John could forget that his sons had survived his wife's death, Dean could not forget that his own pain had to be secondary to his brother's survival. So he turned the endless soldier's march that his life had become into something hopeful, something more striking and tremendous and breathtaking. _

_Even years later, he would remember the instant he chose to make the Hunt his life until one or both ended. From then on it was about more than just protection. Dean worked to turn proficiency into virtuosity. Dad didn't care about true technique when it came to the skills he drilled into his son – as long as you got the job done and flinching didn't cause you to put a **good** somebody's eye out. John didn't see the weapons they used as beautiful things, or the abilities they honed as artistry, just as he didn't see the good they did as universal. Everything was end and means, means and end. _

_In the world outside the Hunt, the world John's sons would have grown up in if Mary had not been killed, the Winchester boys would likely be considered gifted in whatever they chose to pursue. They were highly intelligent, curious, creative children. While Sam stubbornly refused to focus on the life their father had chosen for them, clinging to the constancy of measurable academics, pushing the family quest aside … Dean struggled to keep up with John and threw all the physical and mental energy he could muster into completing the quest – believing but never admitting that once the deed was done, the universe would right itself. They'd be safe, they'd have their father back, they'd grieve, they'd go on living. They'd start living. The sooner Dean was a perfect hunter, the sooner he'd be home._

_And so he pushed himself – the Hunt becoming vocation and avocation – and pushed his father for full partnership. That first real hunt at sixteen, the one where he'd been in front, was the first time he'd let go of his fear… or maybe he'd embraced it. Whichever it was, he'd used the fear, creating a place inside himself where the fear was both fuel and focus point. The hunt had gone right and John had almost voiced approval. Dean felt the payoff and the cost, which chilled and warmed him almost into delirium. After looking the evils of the night full in the eye, night itself was no longer an enemy. And fear was still fear – but when you take a match to it, it blazes into something valuable._

_

* * *

_

There was a time that this – running alone – would have frightened him, and sometimes it still did. Running alone is powerful thing. For those lucky enough to be emotionally healthy, it's probably a good thing – rejuvenating and filled with revelation. For those who kill supernatural insanity with their dysfunctional family as a way of life… coming up against one's self in a dark alley can be pretty horrifying. Dean spent weeks debating his ability to handle it when it first occurred to him to try it as post-hunt therapy.

Avoidance was a Winchester way of life, and Dean knew that spending so much time inside his head would give him time to think. And he was not convinced this was going to be a good thing. But then again, he knew he needed to find something – he needed a way to not just physically loosen up from the stress and strain of hunting, but to have some space to clear out his head and set his soul to face the sun again.

He'd hated running when Dad first decided (after the Shtriga incident) that Dean needed an exercise regimen to teach him some discipline. However, he soon realized the usefulness of being able to bolt from an angry Dad, flee a tiresome Sammy, or impress teachers and girls at the occasional school. In addition – of course – to escaping death more effectively.

As soon as he was old enough, Dean ran track at every educational institution they had passed through. If they had a team, he was on it. He mostly missed meets due to their hunting schedule, but it was an extra-curricular activity Dad actually allowed him and the coaches seemed willing to make exceptions for this amazing yet transient student. After a short battle where they'd had to run for their lives, John had taken surprisingly little convincing. Dean laid it out in way he hoped was nonchalant, yet irrefutably logical.

_John looked away, his eyes staring out the window at nothing. For an instant, Dean wondered if his father had forgotten the question, and then John turned and his dark eyes met Dean's._

"_Son, I'd like to let you have this…to let you do this…but I don't want to give you the idea that it can ever come first for us." John sighed, and unconsciously his fingers probed the day-old wound on his thigh. Dean's concern turned immediately to his father._

"_Dad, are you okay?" Dean asked, kneeling beside his father without waiting for a reply. "Let me look at it again, maybe I didn't clean it well enough – maybe you need stitches." As he started to remove the bandage, he felt John's hand on his head and he stopped, looking up at his father in surprise. He'd made an art form of reading the inscrutable John Winchester and still he felt dumbfounded by both the action and the expression on his father's face. A gentle touch had been rare enough in John's physical vocabulary when Dean was small, and now Dean was thirteen and near six feet tall and he couldn't remember the last time…_

"_Let it be, Dean – its fine." said John, his tone gruff though without the bite his son usually associated with it. His hand moved to Dean's shoulder, where it sat heavy and warm. John avoided sentimentality like it carried a reaper's touch, and while it seemed that this should qualify as sentimentality, it seemed more than that._

"_What is it Dad?" he asked, looking up and meeting his father's gaze. John's eyes shone brightly in the dimness of the cramped kitchen and Dean realized with a flash that his father had looked at him like this once before. It was a look of sadness, of longing for the past, of dreaming it was different… the look that said he saw Mary in his son, that he** saw** his son. And he saw what this life was doing to all of them._

"_I…You really want to do this?" John questioned._

"_Yes, Dad."_

"_I can't say I'll be there for… races or competitions or whatever… I can't even promise that you can be there, Dean. Hunting is our top priority. Finding the demon that killed your mother is more important than anything else. Do you understand?" Dean nodded and his father's hand dropped from his son's shoulder, and John rubbed his jaw and sighed deeply, the combat fatigue showing._

"_I know Dad," said Dean slowly, now sitting back with his arms loosely around his knees, "Hunting comes first for both of us. Always."_

_In a moment more truthful than most, John held the instant instead of stepping back. Likenesses and differences passed between them in the silence and for each the tally was enough to keep the ground solid beneath them._

_

* * *

_

So Dean ran like a star until high school ended and stopped because there was no where else to run. Then just after beginning his own final year of high school, Sam quit talking to Dean. Not completely – he still asked him to pass the milk and pick up toilet paper and turn down the Metallica – but noticeably for a baby brother who'd never been able to shut his mouth for more than ten minutes. Always before, even without words, Dean and Sam had kept each other going, kept the loneliness at bay for one another, continued to be The Winchester Family, no matter what Dad's mood or sobriety.

Now, after hunting there were no more late nights at the arcade together, no more wrestling, no more devouring boxes of ice cream sandwiches. Most of all, no more just sitting, _not alone_ while you worked it out in your head, the chick flick moments Dad wouldn't allow playing out inside your head. He tried to bait him, tried to engage him, nothing worked. Sam showered, changed, ate and got out his books. He'd always studied, always escaped by reading – Dean did his fair share as well – but this was different. Sam wasn't just avoiding Dad, he was now avoiding Dean. And Dean couldn't figure out why.

He hung on as long as he could. Then, after Thanksgiving, they had a bad, bad hunt. Dad spent three days in the hospital, Sam and Dean both stayed overnight, Dean checking himself out Against Medical Advice. Even then, alone at the motel, Sammy wouldn't talk to him and Dean knew he was serious about whatever this was. He stormed and raged at his little brother, now taller than Dean with a sulky streak to match his height, and then he took the Impala for a drive and began to think about ways to not kill himself or anyone else when the weight of the evil in the world pressed down too hard upon him. He began to think about how to run without running away.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Thank you **all **for your lovely reviews and your patience. This is another long one...What's the vote? Would y'all prefer shorter chapters? And to my support team – you know who you are – thanks a million. I haven't lost sight of where we're going it's just taking longer than I thought. Sam gets a turn next, I promise. I hope this chapter rings (at least) mostly true. Please read. Please Review.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended.

_**Chapter Five**_

_The power of hiding ourselves from one another is mercifully given, for men are wild beasts, and would devour one another but for this protection. __– __Henry Ward Beecher_

Dean was warm now, and he paused under another sycamore, using the tree to stretch. Triceps, shoulders, calves, quads, hamstrings. While he always had to work the kinks out before be started moving, years of drills by both his father and various coaches kept him from running in earnest without a prep jog of a couple miles. After that came this – the real stretching. Pushing his heated muscles, willing them to lengthen and loosen.

He held the last stretch with his eyes closed, listening and breathing. The air around him pulsated with life – the way it does between Spring and Summer, when growing things are young and moving and their energy seems to touch you as physically as brushing fingertips.

Dean felt himself softening, layer by layer. The tightness that allowed him to fight and control and not weep every day even though he couldn't rest, releasing. The door easing open, allowing access to the place he kept himself when there wasn't room in the Hunt to hold it. And he began to run, really.

Starting to run again, the decision to do it, hadn't come easily. His gut knew he needed it – for a dozen reasons, but logically, he worried. Before, running had been about letting go. Letting the hunter and the child fuse and reconcile. Now, years of holding on came and went and he wondered if it would bring balance, or throw him off the cliff which seemed to loom just ahead in his tightrope-life.

The first few times out were anti-climactic. Waiting to fall apart, to prove that he couldn't have a moment of humanity, that there was too much pain in his soul to live through actually feeling it. That there would never be any kind of "normal" unburdening, as long as his father and brother needed him for deliverance. Even when they didn't see it themselves. So the running served to keep Dean bound and sane – mostly – enough decompression to keep going and just short of enough to emotionally annihilate him.

When he finally found out why Sammy had cut him off, there hadn't been enough pavement in the world to drive the fury out of him, and he loved the Impala too much to get behind the wheel if he was bleeding to death – literally or figuratively. The run that day had saved his life.

* * *

_He sensed it building, coming to a head. He didn't know what it was, but in the past two weeks, Sam – if this was possible – was both more withdrawn and more aggressive at the same time. If something didn't give soon – and it wasn't gonna be Dad – paying Hell would be getting off easy._

_Dean had been out late, and he woke to what was now the usual sound of Sam and Dad seething at one another. They'd taken to attempting this bizarre, hushed feuding. Sam had told him they were just trying to be considerate and let him sleep – but he wasn't born yesterday. They were practically ready to kill one another and if it came down to it, neither wanted Dean to get in the way._

"_You know, some day I'd like a chance to wake up on the right side of the bed." He muttered to himself, pulling the pillow from under his head and covering his face with it. On cue, the volume in the living room rose. Dean took a deep breath and with a groan he sat up, the cool, cracking linoleum causing his toes to curl. He leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees, listening to the words now, not just the discord._

"_For cryin' out loud kid, if you hate me so much, if you hate this life, then don't let me keep you!" John bellowed._

"_You'd like that wouldn't you Dad, no more baby Sammy to haul around, and **oh**, best of **all**, nobody to call you on your same old **lame** excuses for always, **always** giving your sons the short end of the stick." Sam hollered back._

_Dean pulled a t-shirt on and headed for the bathroom. "Sam's got a nice bass voice when he opens up those lungs." he thought idly, turning the sink on and letting the water warm._

"_Don't bring your brother into this, Sam – this is between you and me! Dean's never had a problem with the way I run this family. He **trusts** me and I just don't understand why you won't do the same –"_

"_Trust you? You want me to trust you? It's hard to trust someone who doesn't think about anyone but himself, Dad. When was the last time you seriously considered how **I** feel about anything other than a drive-through menu?" Sam stormed._

"_Hey, you want Arby's instead of McDonalds? We can do that without this kind of disrespect, son." cracked John with biting sarcasm. "What exactly does that have to do with you fighting me on **everything** from how many bullets to bring on a hunt, to how many days of school you're **willing** to miss when your brother and I need you to watch our backs?"_

_Dean cringed, stowing the razor in his bag and considering his hair in the mirror. "I thought you suggested leaving me out of this, Dad – Sammy's not gonna let that one pass…" he sighed. None of this was new, and if it wasn't so depressing, he'd laugh that they hadn't learned. They fell for each other's button-pushing bait every time. Then Sam's voice came quietly and stone cold._

"_Would you **listen** to yourself? 'Watch our backs'. This is a crazy way to live, Dad. It's sick and it's **crazy **and I'm not going to do it anymore. Not for you – not even for Dean."_

"_You don't have a choice! You're a part of this family, and this family will **not **rest until – until –" John faltered in his ferocity. "What about your mother, Sam? Are you gonna walk out on her too?"_

_Dean drew in a breath as though he'd been slapped. He met his own eyes in the mirror and then dropped his hands forward to the basin in front of him, bracing himself against the sudden nausea that came with his father's words and his brother's before that. In his mind, he could see the expression on Sammy's face – the "how could you" look, that showed the fight inside between his misery and wrath and self-control. Sam was speaking again, nearly a whisper now._

"_The guilt won't work this time, Dad. I've made up my mind. I'm getting out. I'm going to college."_

_Without realizing it Dean had moved to lean against the thin, hollow door between his bedroom and the living room. His gut twisted as he heard his brother's voice, pleading to be understood – pleading to be pardoned._

_This was it then, the secret his brother kept from him. The Thing that had driven a wedge where Dean had believed it impossible for anything or anyone – including the devil himself – to drive a wedge. Looking back he could see it starting; the fretting, the insecurity, the grousing and petulance. The rebellion. And he cursed himself when he realized that everything he'd given Sam – which had been everything Dean had and all he could steal – was not enough. _

_Vertigo gripped him as his galaxy somersaulted and it occurred to him that he must be dying – nothing else could hurt this much. Then his father's voice rang out. Clear and deadly calm and scarier than almost anything Dean had heard in his life._

"_Then. Go. I. Dare. You."_

"_Dad –" _

"_For all your book smarts, you never had the sense God gave a rabbit. I dare you to leave – you won't last a day without your family, Sammy." John snarled the nickname. "Go. And don't come back." The sound of the front door opening roughly and then, "If you don't need us then you can be cocksure we don't need you."_

_The slam shook the unsubstantial house, and hearing the creak of the sofa Dean could almost see his brother's lean frame collapse upon it. He stood behind the door – only a few feet away, but too far – frozen between wanting to make it better for Sammy and the intensity of his own grief.

* * *

_

Pausing at an intersection for a couple of cars, Dean kept moving, and he glanced at his watch. It wasn't like he had anywhere to be or anyone waiting up for him – he'd trained his family well – but this run was based on need rather than an actual desire to be out and about. His father's indoctrination of preparation applied to more than just cleaning guns. Dean ran because he knew it kept his edge sharp – he was a better hunter because of it, mentally and physically. He ran because it kept him alive, or at least that was how he justified taking this time for himself.

He crossed the street, averting his eyes as he passed porch lights and bright windows. Tonight, he'd rather be "home" (with Sam), watching television or doing research, comfortable in the space and silence that they usually shared. He became aware of the tension in his shoulders and made a conscious attempt to let it drift away. Dean Winchester prided himself on his ability to control his temper and to make that control look easy and nonchalant.

Yet after the strain of this last hunt he'd been about ready to snap in two and so he'd started the con by playing with the waitress. Underestimating his brother's own level of burnout and therefore patience with what he considered Dean's licentiousness. Sam pounced, Dean smacked him back.

Now instead of heading out for a quick run and then coming home in time for microwave popcorn and the midnight movie – sweaty, full of a convincing amount of smirk and smart mouth and comments that reflected less than virtuously on his supposed female companion – Dean had to stay out late enough that Sam would at least be pretending to sleep.

* * *

The first time he'd used a woman as a lie, it was uncalculated. The leaves had begun to turn and as usual, Sam and Dad fought constantly when school started. For John it was the anticipation of November and the advent of his wife's death – he always got crazy this time of year. For Sammy, it had to do with trying to study by flashlight in the back of the Impala and having tons of extra credit work in order to make up for assignments missed by absences that you couldn't just … explain to a teacher. 

At seventeen, Sam had decided to go for outright hostility when it came to dealing with his father, and their second hunt of the season resulted in broken wrist because he'd refused to lock the car door when Dean and John went looking for a pair of restless trolls. Even when they didn't technically need his help these days, John's punishment of his second son's attitude was to make him come on every hunt "to keep the car warm".

The trolls had found the lone young hunter and done some real damage before his brother and father managed to circle back and dispatch them. For what was, at the time, an unknown reason – Dean figured it was a combination of stress, self-reproach and sheer anger – John had become pretty paranoid, and life had gotten more miserable than usual.

By Christmas, their father barely let either of them shower by themselves. John had given way to major over protectiveness – "pitfall phobia" as Dean thought of it – occasionally in the past, but never to this extent. With current perspective, he knew that his Dad had received independent warnings from several of his friends and there was good reason to worry. At the time though, Dean had been fed up.

They'd argued, rare for father and eldest son. Dean was in disbelief that he couldn't go for a run, alone, like he'd been doing for the past six weeks without someone coming along to spot possible supernatural stalkers. He was twenty-two for crying out loud, and he didn't need a babysitter. As frustrated as he was, he could only bring himself to openly oppose his father to a point. Dean backed down and took his grievances out on a makeshift punching bag bolted to the ceiling of their current rental shack.

A week and a married couple of restless spirits later, Sam had been hurt again – badly enough for three days in the hospital and almost two weeks out of school. Sam with a concussion that left him unconscious for seventeen hours meant Dean out of his mind. He kept himself together because he **wouldn't** leave Sammy, but he was between a rock and a hard place. He needed to run, needed to relieve some of the pressure… but disobeying his father outright wasn't something Dean knew how to do then.

John had been half-way to hysteria about Sam – he'd been goaded into splitting up that night and letting Sam check the attic by himself. While he'd never say the words, Dean knew his father blamed himself for his youngest son's mauling. When they brought Sammy home from the hospital, Dad was practically downright tender with him.

Then a strange thing had happened. Sam went back to school, and John still made Dean go both ways with him – the seemingly irrational safety concerns hadn't eased. After two days back at school, Sammy came home with a request. He'd passed it by Dean as they drove back to the house and Dean remembered saying something about there being a snowball's chance… John wasn't going to let Sammy go to Melissa's house to study, alone. And then their father looked at his high school senior son – **tenderly** – and said yes. Dean had been beyond stunned, and then he'd been hurt - the baby brother could go out alone and the big brotehr had to stay home with daddy? Then he'd steeled himself to let it go, but he kept onthinking.

Two nights later, he decided he was done sitting around andhe'd told his Dad he was going out. John wanted to know why and where and follow along, and Sammy had jumped on that bandwagon faster than a speeding bullet. Dean looked from one to the other – he hadn't anticipated they'd team up – and with his stomach moving like a fish on the line, said the first thing that came to mind. He said he had a date. The looks on their faces had been beyond price and Dean grinned even now at the thought. He had realized then that, not for the first time, his mouth had moved faster thanhis brainand the deal had turned out better for it.

His family clearly hadn't contemplated; at least not recently, that Dean might want/need/have a life outside of them. And it certainly hadn't occurred to them that it involved romantic relationships – short **or **long term. John and Sam were caught so off guard (surprising for a pair of hunters), that Dean walked out the door and drove away without another protest from either of them. It hurt to be obviously thought of as a piece of Winchester… furniture. Always there, no requests. Personification ignored for what it was unless it was needed - and yet the relief at his escape salved offense and conscience.

The first time he'd used a woman as a lie, it was uncalculated. But it worked so well, he saw no reason to change the con. From then 'til now, Dean dedicated a considerable amount of time and talent to the inflation of this act and he was positive that neither his father nor his brother had a clue. As far as they were concerned, Dean was all action, all the time. He partied late, came home early (in the morning), and spent the hours in between with whatever lovely lady he could reel in with his Winchester Charm. They swallowed it whole.

Granted, he liked women, and it wasn't like he never went on an actual date… but the women he spent time with were not the ones Sam and John saw him leering at and leading on. The ones he actually wanted to be with weren't won like that. Not even close in pattern or essence.

He tried not to let it bother him that as his family or even as well-trained hunters, they couldn't see through the guise. Yet he still had to push away the wound that opened every time they fell for it – Sammy especially. It ached to have his little brother believe in a weakness that didn't exist. Hero-worship had always been a underlying thread in their brotherhood (both ways, though Sam didn't know it), and this pretended life tainted that. He toyed with the idea every time he gave a waitress that heartbreaker grin while Sam watched. He'd thought about it this time as he tempted Nikki with the Magnificent Smile (as Sammy called it). And then there were the frequent and discomfiting moments – like tonight – when to keep it all looking right he had to defend his own ridiculous behavior. Could he really continue this indefinitely? Like killing, the lies came easier, but he hated that they did.

Dean could no longer count the times he's used women as lies. To run, or breathe, or be. It seemed like such a stupid thing to be deceitful about, when he let himself wonder at the wisdom of it. But the thought of coming clean, of admitting his secret life – albeit one that was a far sight more honorable than the one they thought he lived now – seemed an unworkable problem. He'd been false too long to feel comfortable displaying the truth.

And some part of him… some part of him rejoiced that in the close quarters of the Hunt, the life he lived behind the mask of Romeo was his own. He was real and himself and he couldn't face losing what he knew his family couldn't give. Permission to be more than a vigilant warrior and a faithful protector. Permission to rest or be radiant as he chose – permission to choose.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Been a long time for this story—can you believe I'm working on it again? I was reading back through this piece and it hit me that I have a realllllyyyy whinnnyyyy emo Sam on my hands here LOL. But if you're still with me you'll remember this is a S1 fic. Sam's just lost Jess to the bloody demon fire, he's back with Dean and he's not happy about it, he has all those daddy issues—the kid is falling apart. So take his hysteria with that in mind. He was much younger than he is now. Please, read and remember that reviews actually make me write faster._

**Chapter Six**

"Between the idea and the reality, between the motion and the act, falls the shadow." T.S. Eliot

Sam had once read that the art of reading was learning what to skip and what to pay attention to. He'd found this particular art useful while growing up, as he never knew when it would be time to pack up and head out or when his father would find another freak and break out the weapons. Time to study was a tricky feat, and growing up, reading for pleasure (Sam's most voracious and sanity-anchoring vice) was fast and loose or not at all.

At Stanford, his focus was on texts and textbooks to begin with, but as he relaxed into a steady schedule of school and work he found there was actually time for enjoying a good book, uninterrupted.

With access to an unlimited amount of free reading material and no worries about whether he'd be in town long enough to return it, Sam began to read more voraciously than ever before. He tried everything that crossed his path and he read like a starved man eating; unparticular and insatiable.

It wasn't long (at a dozen volumes a week in his spare time) that his taste became a little more refined, that he slowed down and he began to pick and choose. Gone was his childhood interest in dragon slaying, hero-filled brain candy. It took a lot more than that now to allow him to escape the way his mind could wander when he read, wandered from the page to his own haunted existence.

He'd decided to avoid true crime, mysteries, horror and fantasy and historical fiction or non-fiction involving war. Anything with even a slight tang of the supernatural or bloody to-the-death fighting was out. He'd tried a ton of it in his first six months at Stanford and as he read it made him nauseous and at night he woke up sweating and shaking.

Occasionally he'd find himself interested in a biography or some poetry, but what drew him in most were stories about normal people, with normal problems, living normal lives. He was fascinated by how lives were lived and the ways in which individuals and families struggled through misery and found happiness, all without the lurking, dark, influence of the supernatural. This sort of novel was a window into a world he had never lived in—even in his happy days with Jess.

But those days had been closer to anything else he'd ever seen and had given him a sense at least of what it would have been like. After Jessica had asked him to live with her he'd let the fortress-like battlements around his wishing heart start to crumble, and within six months he'd given himself over to as much home-style bliss as she'd give him.

Jess wasn't as interested in reading as Sam was; she preferred a night out to a night in. Sam was content to follow her from party to concert the first months of their relationship, but when he moved in Sam subtly began to change their routine and it wasn't long before they were sitting on the couch or in bed, each with a book as many evenings as they were making the rounds to gatherings and watering holes.

Sam would make popcorn or Jess would make cookies and they'd settle in together, feet or elbows touching, to be together while losing themselves in stories. Her taste was singular and the exact opposite of Sam's and almost always included vampires. One night she had insisted on reading him "the best part" of her current paperback and Sam had required great strength not to laugh at the mainstream scary/sexy blood-sucker myths the book fed into.

With a deep sigh he tossed the novel he'd just finished toward the end of the bed and stretched his arms. Placing them behind his head he leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes, thinking about the characters and the problems they'd been faced with.

This particular book was not his favorite kind; it had ended with everything tied up neatly. No one died, the runaway came back, and they all rode off merrily into the sunset. This aversion to happy endings was a recent development. Jess' murder had turned him from a fairy-tale-ending man into a restless, up-in-the-air, left-twisting-in-the-wind type. He was unsettled, and that was all that ever felt right anymore at the end of a story.

He glanced at the faux-baroque gold plastic clock above the television. Ten minutes to ten o'clock. Sam's eyes wandered the room, surveying the remains of dinner's pizza on the table, the stack of books on the dresser, Dean's duffle perched on the end of his still-made bed.

In his chest stirred the familiar rasp of longing that he felt whenever he was alone for long enough to realize it. Part of him wished for the millionth time that he was more like Dean.

Not so much the completely dysfunctional parts, but the devil-may-care, courageous and wild aspects of his brother's personality were things that Sam had always envied. It was those . . . talents . . . that seemed to allow Dean hunt blood and horror and yet escape from it with his soul intact.

For Sam, there was never really an escape, even when he tried Dean's tactics of drink and debauchery. It didn't make it easier and in fact it made things harder. He hadn't ever understood why it helped Dean and the thought occurred to him that maybe it didn't. There were defensive mechanisms and there were coping mechanisms and the two were not necessarily the same thing.

Swinging his legs off the bed he pulled the stack of books on the bedside table toward him and half-heartedly sorted through them. There were two he thought he could stand, but he wasn't excited about either of them, really.

It had been awhile since he'd gone out with Dean, he realized. Dean being Hell-bent on infuriating him into silence was beginning to be a post-hunt habit, he mused. It was like his brother was taunting him on purpose—making Sam angry to put distance between him. And it always ended with Dean and going out. Alone.

Usually it was something stupid that started it . . . Sam sighed and lay back on the bed, closing his eyes. Dean knew what buttons to push when he wanted Sam to give him space. Why Dean didn't ever just _ask_, Sam didn't know. He would have done it if Dean had just said _Hey, Sam, I'd like to have an evening to myself_, it'd be fine with him. He hadn't considered before that it might really be a manipulation on Dean's part—more than just to annoy him. A ploy to actually get him out of the way.

Why? Sam frowned and dropped the book in his hand back onto the bed. There was always the protection angle—Dean's mother-hen routine was as old as Sam was—but that didn't make a lot of sense considering there were plenty of other instances where Dean was encouraging Sam to be . . . reckless with his extra-curricular activities. And Dean wasn't the least bit shy or embarrassed by his own rakish behavior so it wasn't out of a sense of decorum either.

The more he thought about it, the more convinced Sam was that Dean was somehow, for some reason, pulling a con on him with the handsome devil persona. _But why?_ Sam stood up and began to pace the few feet of dingy carpet that passed for open space in the motel room. In his mind, he wandered through the past; their childhoods and teen years, pulling memories out like snapshots.

He supposed it had begun when Dean was in junior high—maybe fourteen or fifteen. Their father had been leaving them for longer and longer stretches and had made it clear Sam was not to be left alone. This made little sense, considering John had left Dean alone for a day or two at a time when Dean was half Sam's age, but it was the way it was. When their dad finally did come back from hunting, Dean would sneak out at night or just not come home after school. John would catch his elder son sneaking back in and then there was Hell for Dean to pay.

Those fights had stopped eventually, as Dean got older and John had battling with his younger son to worry about, but Dean never backed down when his father asked where he'd been. Watching through the crack in the bedroom door or peeking over the sofa he was supposed to be sleeping on, Sam had listened as Dean regaled his dad with stories of the girls he'd been with, the alcohol he'd drunk and the vandalism he'd perpetrated.

Cold fury swirled off of John Winchester and the two had come almost to blows repeatedly. Shoving and growling and the occasional backhand were common during these exchanges. John had not been brought to physical violence towards his sons often, but Dean—Dean could push buttons as well as Sam could when it came to their father. And with the powerlessness Sam and Dean had both felt, there was something satisfying in pushing their father to his own limit.

It couldn't have lasted more than a year or two, before Sam's rebellion against the life of the hunt kicked in, and John's concern over Dean's behavior faded away in the face of Sam's stubborn longing for normalcy. Sam hadn't thought about it in forever, but many times he'd wondered whether Dean had really done everything he told their dad he'd done or if it was just Dean's way of goading their father—his way of pushing back against the stresses of being the full-time caretaker of his younger brother and the constant state of instability in their home life.

And while some things had changed (Sam didn't need help tying his own shoes now), he supposed that for Dean, most things had stayed the same. He was still on the road, still no stable support system, still dealing with the agenda of a distant, revenge-driven father. Any dreams Dean had in his childhood—and there had been dreams, Sam knew that—had been buried years ago. So where did that leave his brother's coping mechanisms? _Probably still stuck in eighth grade_.

Sam sprawled across the faded, threadbare coverlet of his bed and rolled over on his back to stare and the stains patterning the ceiling. In his mind's eye he could see Dean's departure tonight, and a dozen other nights. Dean's bravado, his obnoxiousness, his needling of Sam. Sam's response—angry, hurt, disgusted. Dean leaves. Sam stays. Now, clear as daylight Sam could see the pattern and he could see that it was deliberate.

No one could accuse Sam Winchester of not being nosy—of not wanting to _know everything _about everything. Knowledge was power and if there was one thing Sam felt like he lacked in the current incarnation of this relationship with his brother, it was power. He was the one person Dean hadn't pushed away . . . until Stanford, until Jess, until Sam had returned. Now the wall of protection Dean had built which was usually only a couple feet high between the two brothers, was something Sam could barely see over the top of. _Well. That doesn't work me_.

"He's not in this alone anymore," Sam whispered to the empty room. "He doesn't have to be."

Sam stood up and pulled on his jacket, slipping the room keys into his pocket and his pistol into the back of his waistband. He grabbed a flashlight out of his duffle for good measure and then he flipped out the overhead light and locked the door behind him.


End file.
